Hell Hath No Curry

by Tamar Myers

  “I can tell.”

  “You can?”

  “Don’t worry, I find it rather invigorating. Now, about the bet, I stand here on my feet all day, and by closing time I can hardly walk. Dorothy refuses to give me a foot rub—she thinks feet are gross, along with several other body parts—and I could really, really use one. So if you lose the bet, off come my shoes and socks.”

  “And if I win?”

  “First of all, this bet hinges entirely on you being honest. But since I know you would rather snip off your own tongue with pruning shears than let even one false word pass your perfectly shaped lips, I trust you. I just wanted you to know that.”

  “Oy veys meer,” I moaned. Surely Sam was being facetious. He had to know that I was capable of taking the art of lying to new heights, maybe even having it recognized as an Olympic sport. I’m not proud of this, mind you, but I will not deny that it does give me some sense of satisfaction to know that when I have fudged on the truth, I have done it convincingly, to the best of my ability. Besides, I have never lied in order to deliberately hurt someone, and, as stated earlier, I have never borne false testimony against a neighbor in court. But if, on the off chance, Sam wasn’t being facetious, his words of trust, if I really believed them, would make me feel so guilty, I might be tempted to drown myself in a bowl of chicken soup, knaidlach bobbing against my forehead.

  “I’d like an answer now, not tomorrow.”

  “Okay, okay, don’t rush me already. Tell me what I’d win.”

  “A free shopping spree in this glorious establishment.”

  I sighed. “Same rules as last time I won a free spree?”

  “Same rules: only one buggy load, and nothing from the specialty shelf.”

  “That means the jar of caviar will be here for another twenty years. It expired at the turn of the century.”

  “It’s here for ambience, along with the pimentos and artichoke hearts. Now, what’s your answer?”

  “My answer is yes. Now, what’s the gossip pertaining to Cornelius’s unfortunate demise?”

  Sam leaned over the counter so that my garlic breath was inches from his face. “I was dusting the specialty shelf, as a matter of fact, when two Amish women came in. I couldn’t see them at first, but I recognized one as Drustara Kurtz’s mother, Esther—you know how raspy she sounds. Anyway, she was trying to whisper but was obviously very upset about something, so they were loud whispers. I thought about coughing or shuffling my feet, but frankly I was just too curious.”

  “A man after my own heart—oops, don’t read anything into that. Pick right up where you left off.”

  That didn’t stop Sam from leering at me. “Esther was talking about all the pain the Nameless One had given her. She meant Drustara, of course.”

  “Of course. It must be incredibly hard to lose a child, even if it is just to the world.”

  “Are you going to keep interrupting me—no, don’t answer. As I was about to say, the second voice belonged to Anna Schumacher, who, as we all know, sounds like a canary on steroids. Anna wanted to know if the wedding was still on, and if so, did Esther want to come to her house and help her bake pies for the Sunday meeting, on account of it might take her mind off things. Then Esther said that no, the wedding was off, thank you, God, and now she had an even bigger worry.”

  “Whose wedding?” I hollered.

  Sam finally recoiled from the residue of Doc’s sausages. “Give me a chance, will you? Do you want to hear it word for word, or not?”

  “Not. Just give me a summary with all the pertinent facts.”

  “Impertinence is more like it.”

  “What did you say? Remember, it’s up to me to decide if the information is worth giving you a foot rub.”

  “You see what you do, Magdalena? You get a man’s blood going. There’s never a dull moment with you. My Dorothy, on the other hand, puts me to sleep. Sometimes we put each other to sleep. Once we both fell asleep doing you-know-what.”

  “Not another word, or I’m going to have to poke out my mind’s eye.”

  “So anyhow, the wedding was supposed to be between Drustara and Cornelius. Did you know that he was the reason she stopped being Amish?”

  “That simply isn’t true. It was on account of a Methodist boy she met during her rumshpringe. That one she married but is now divorced from.”

  “Guess again. That was how she covered it up.”

  “Covered up what?”

  “The fact that she was pregnant with Cornelius’s baby.”

  “You mean the darling Clementine?”

  “You got it. From what I could tell, now, after almost four years, Drustara had finally pressured Cornelius into marrying her. Then she writes the tell-all book and appears on Oprah. Suddenly the wedding’s off, and the next thing we know, Cornelius takes frying lessons.”

  “You mean flying lessons, right?”

  “No. I meant what I said. That philandering scoundrel is taking frying lessons in preparation for Hell.”

  “Which are you, the pot or the kettle?”

  “I only fantasize about cheating on my Dorothy; I’ve never actually done it. There’s a difference.”

  “You should talk to Jimmy Carter, dear. But never mind that now. When was this conversation you overheard?”

  “Just a day or two before Cornelius died.”

  “Hmm. Since Drustara was forced into exile almost four years ago, and her family banned from speaking to her, that would mean there is a go-between.”

  “A younger sibling maybe? One too young to be covered by the ban.”

  “Most likely. Sam, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were a genius.”

  “Same back at you.”

  “What was the bigger worry her mother referred to?”

  “I honestly don’t know. Another customer walked in, and that was the end of the conversation. So, what do you think? Was that worth a foot rub?”

  I sighed. Having known Sam my entire life, I knew there was no backing out of our deal. As for putting off the inevitable, that would be like delaying a root canal.

  “Okay, I’ll do it. But get me some rubber gloves and a clothespin. And, of course, lock the door.”

  Sam rubbed his hands together. “Sounds kinky already. I love it.”

  “The clothespin is for my nose, and the gloves are so I don’t have to touch your feet. And two minutes is all you get.”

  I will pay for those two minutes for the rest of my life.

  30

  Garden Delight Curry

  Ingredients

  ¼ cup oil

  Water as needed

  ½ teaspoon mustard seeds ½ teaspoon fenugreek seeds 1 teaspoon cumin seeds

  2 large potatoes, cut into 4 pieces each (bigger pieces prevent potatoes from being mashed)

  2 medium onions, finely chopped 2 medium tomatoes, finely diced

  2 carrots, peeled and cut into small cubes

  1 tablespoon tomato paste

  1 zucchini, chopped into small pieces

  ½ teaspoon ginger-garlic paste 2 green chilies, split in half

  1 medium green or red bell pepper, diced

  ¼ teaspoon turmeric powder

  1 head cauliflower, cut into small florets

  ½–1 teaspoon cayenne pepper (or to taste)

  1 cup peas

  Coriander leaves, finely chopped, for garnish (optional)

  1 teaspoon sugar Salt to taste

  Yield: 6 servings

  Preparation

  1. Heat oil in a saucepan and add mustard, fenugreek, and cumin seeds. Cook till they begin to splutter, then carefully add onions. Mix well and sauté till onions are soft.

  2. Add tomatoes, tomato paste, garlic-ginger paste, green chilies, turmeric powder, cayenne, sugar, and salt. Mix well. Cook this masala for 5 minutes. Use water as needed to keep masala from drying out.

  3. Add all the rest of the vegetables except cauliflower and peas. Stir well and cook till vegetables are slightly tender. />
  4. Add cauliflower and peas; add very little water (¼ cup) to help steam vegetables. Stir well.

  5. Cover and cook on low heat till potatoes and cauliflower are fork tender. The time could vary depending on your preference for doneness, 10–20 minutes. Add a little water if curry is too dry.

  6. Garnish with coriander leaves and serve with naan and raita.

  31

  How was I to know that Sam did not lock the door? And how was I to know that Agnes Mishler would decide to bake anise seed cookies and find that her larder was low on exotic flavorings? I will, however, accept the blame for being stupid enough to kneel on the floor behind Sam’s counter while I rubbed his cursed foot.

  “Oh, my heavenly stars!” Agnes said between gasps.

  “Nit not whant nyu nink,” I cried, and then thought to rip the clothespin off my nose. “Honest!”

  “It was awesome,” Sam said, his face shining with pleasure.

  I grabbed Sam’s left foot and, struggling to my feet, managed to take it with me. Of course Sam, who’d been leaning back against the counter, had the somewhat unpleasant experience of feeling his noggin hit first the edge of the counter, and then the concrete. It was only the second time in my life that I heard a grown man cry.

  “You see?” I wailed. “His foot is bare, and I’m wearing rubber gloves.”

  “Magdalena, you’re my friend,” Agnes said slowly, “so I’ll try to keep an open mind. What were you doing down there?”

  “I lost a bet—although strictly speaking it wasn’t a bet, since I don’t bet, but more of a friendly wager. Anyway, I lost, and as a consequence I had to rub his disgusting foot.”

  “Whatever you say, Magdalena. But really, would it be too much to ask of younz to lock the door?”

  “It was locked,” I bellowed. “Well, at least it was supposed to be locked.” I glared at Sam, who was moaning on the floor.

  Agnes leaned over the counter. “Yuck. You really were rubbing his feet, weren’t you?”

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures. I needed to get some info from him.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask me?”

  “Next time I will.”

  “What is it you want to know?”

  “The latest scuttlebutt on Cornelius Weaver. Are there any new rumors, that kind of thing.”

  “The latest I’ve heard is that Norma Kleinfelder saw Alice Troyer’s new comedy act in Bedford last night. It was at the Holiday Inn lounge, or someplace like that. They call it a comedy club, but I hear that it’s mostly just filth. At any rate, Alice was telling jokes about Cornelius. How callous is that? Magdalena, she must have hated him something awful.”

  “Believe me, she wasn’t the only one.”

  “Oh, but that’s not the half of it. Guess who else was at the show?”

  “I give up. Who?”

  “Veronica Weaver, that’s who. She was there with some guy—some redneck, Norma said—and she was fit to be tied. She ran up on the stage and started swinging at Alice. Called her a liar and every other name in the book. Veronica’s date and the manager, or some guy like that, tried to keep the two women apart. They succeeded, but not before Alice got herself a black eye. Frankly, I’ve never been a fan of Veronica, what with her hippie ways and such, but between you and me, and Sam there, I say Alice got what was coming to her.”

  “Spoken like a true pacifist,” Sam said from his position on the floor.

  I gave him a gentle kick to the ribs. “Judge not, dear. You know, what I don’t get is, what was Veronica doing at a comedy club when her only child had yet to start pushing up daisies.”

  “What is she supposed to do,” Sam growled, “roll around in sackcloth and ashes?”

  “For a while, yes.”

  “I agree with Sam,” Agnes said. “When Daddy died, I did nothing but watch TV. It took my mind off my sorrow.”

  “Cleaning house does the same thing,” I said. Honestly, I wasn’t trying to be mean, merely helpful. For the record, Agnes hasn’t cleaned her house since her daddy died nine years ago in a coal-mining accident. Neither has she thrown anything out. The result is that every room, with the exception of the kitchen, is stacked to the ceiling with stuff, and she has to get around through a maze of unstable tunnels. How Freudian is that?

  “Too bad we’re not all as perfect as you,” Sam said. He seemed content to remain sprawled on the floor.

  “I’m not perfect.”

  “Yes, you are,” Agnes said. “Sometimes I think we should rename our town; call it Magdalenaville, instead.”

  “Would I get a statue?”

  “On one condition,” Sam said. “That we import pigeons.”

  “If only domestic turkeys could fly,” Agnes said. “Jonah Speicher has some big ones.”

  I suppose that was a joke—possibly even a filthy joke—but I didn’t find it particularly funny. But the way Agnes and Sam laughed, you would have thought they’d been drinking. Every now and then one of them would repeat a hilarious word such as turkey or statue, and they would both dissolve into puddles of quivering jelly—all at my expense, of course. It wasn’t easy for me to remain dignified and calm, like the mature adult that I am. What’s more, it was downright weird to see them bond that fast, given that they’d known each other their entire lives and up until now had barely exchanged hellos.

  Finally Sam staggered to his feet. “So, Agnes, what can I get for you?”

  “Do you carry anise seed?”

  “He doesn’t,” I said.

  “Excuse me?” they said in unison.

  “Trust me, dears. Anise seed would be found on Sam’s specialty shelf, which really isn’t all that special, but at any rate, I was just looking at it, and there isn’t any anise seed.”

  “Magdalena knows all,” Sam said, not without sarcasm.

  For some unfathomable reason, this rude comment drew more paroxysms of embarrassing laughter. I might even have lost my cool, as Susannah says, had not our town’s extraordinarily handsome, but heterosexually challenged, policeman entered the store. The laughter ceased immediately.

  “What’s going on?” Chris said. “I could hear you across the street in the station.”

  “Oh, nothing,” Agnes had the nerve to say. “We just seem to be in a jolly mood today.”

  “The we,” I said, “would not include yours truly, although I have been known to laugh in years past. Nineteen sixty-four was a particularly good year, if I recall correctly. Rather a fine, dry laugh, with fruity undertones.”

  Chris nodded. “Miss Yoder, I need to speak to you.”

  “Then you shall,” I said, grateful for the interruption.

  “Privately, if you don’t mind. At the station.”

  I have been to Hernia’s police station innumerable times, once even as an inmate, but I’ve never found it pleasant—until recently. The chief and her handpicked deputy are both native Californians and have brought with them from the West Coast a certain je ne sais quoi. I know they brought it with them, because quoi is a scarce commodity east of the Allegheny River.

  What used to be uninspired white walls are now sea foam green, and once-bare windows now sport balloon shades and fringed curtains with matching valances. The fabrics are soft shades of green with sophisticated accents of silver and gray. The lamps all have new shades, and instead of carpet remnants on the concrete floor, one is privileged to tread upon genuine olefin area rugs depicting abstract patterns. Even the cells have been spruced up, and the bunk beds are now covered in duvets that came with matching pillow shams (alas, one sham has been swiped). As one Hernia wag is reported to have said, “Our city jail has been redecorated by Queer Eye for the Crooked Guy.” I believe this is a television reference, so I am still not sure what it means.

  Although, to my knowledge, there was no one else in the building, young Chris Ackerman closed the door to his office. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or anything, Miss Yoder?”

  “Well, some hot chocolate would be nice. I
’ve got some leftover biscuits and thick-cut bitter marmalade—”

  “Forgive me for interrupting, Miss Yoder, but I only said that to be polite.”

  I felt my heart do a belly flop in the acid pit that had suddenly replaced my stomach. “Look, I know I have a lead foot, but if I promise never, ever to speed again, and double my pledge on Support Our Local Police day, can you overlook it this one last time? I promise it’s the last.”

  “Triple your pledge?”

  “Okay,” I said smugly, “but you drive a hard bargain.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do, because I don’t know what it is that needs overlooking.”

  “But you said—”

  “And you said you’d triple your donation, and that’s fine by me. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you why I asked you over.”

  With my thumb and forefinger I pretended to lock my troublemaking mug and throw away the key.

  Chris didn’t even chuckle. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “Did I do it? Am I being sued?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then quit burning daylight and sock it to me.”

  “Miss Yoder, sometimes you don’t sound even vaguely like a Mennonite.”

  “But I am one, so however I sound, that’s how a Mennonite sounds.” I threw back my head and did a marvelous rendition of a rooster crowing. “You see? That was a Mennonite sounding like a rooster. I can do a passable cow, a great sheep, but my best is a hen that has just laid her egg.”

  Tears filled the sergeant’s eyes.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” I hastened to say. “The hen didn’t feel any pain passing that egg. Childbirth pain is a punishment only we humans have to bear, thanks to Eve sinning in the Garden of Eden. It says so right in the Bible. Of course not all of us will have to experience that, because not every woman is fertile. My garden will forever be as barren as the Mohave Desert—”